The Rest of the Way
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Sherlock's going through a bad episode of depression. John is there for him.     Pointless schmoop and H/C. Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John  platonic romance, established relationship . Part of my series, A Love with No Name.


**A/N:** Totally random piece that's much angstier than all the other fics in this series. Prolly because I've been angsty this last week.

_**Asexual!Sherlock/Straight!John (platonic romance, established relationship).**_

**Warning**: Depression (possible trigger?)

* * *

><p>The Rest of the Way<p>

* * *

><p>John comes home from work on a Friday afternoon, relieved that it's the weekend and having every intention of taking it easy until Monday. He'll order take-away for dinner tonight because he doesn't feel like cooking. He'll take a hot shower-no, a hot bath-and watch crap telly until he can't keep his eyes open anymore. Tomorrow, he'll sleep in and go jogging and do the laundry. Maybe he'll even be able to drag Sherlock to a movie in the evening. He doesn't particularly feel the need to see Mary this weekend, but if she calls, he wouldn't be opposed to meeting for tea, if Sherlock insists on sulking some more.<p>

Sherlock's been in a mood all week. Lestrade hasn't needed his help with anything and Mycroft dropped in for a visit last Sunday. But beyond those two contributing factors, John honestly believes it's just one of those times where the mood decides to arbitrarily swoop in. It seems to only happen a few times a year now, which is a vast improvement from the first few years John and Sherlock lived together. Usually, a mood will last no longer than a week, and John's learned by now that all he can do is let Sherlock ride it out and be on his own best behavior.

As he comes up the stairs to the flat, he notices it's eerily quiet, and it doesn't take him more than a second once he's opened the door to hear a sniffling sound... He freezes just past the threshold of the doorway and stares.

Sherlock is sitting on the floor, still in his pajamas and dressing gown, face covered in tears and the collar of his t-shirt damp-dark. His legs are slightly bent at the knees and wide in front of him, arms limp and hands on his thighs. He hangs his head and sniffles, crying in that very quiet way he does. John's only seen him cry a few times in the last 12 years, and never like this—only when John's nearly died. He doesn't know what to do or say for a few moments, completely stunned at the sight.

"Sherlock?" he says, as he begins to find his voice. He slides the strap of his bag off his shoulder and sets it on the floor, before moving across the room and crouching in front of the other man. "My God, what's wrong?"

Sherlock just sniffles and shakes his head with his eyes closed.

"Hey, look at me," John says. But Sherlock doesn't. John inches forward on his feet and takes Sherlock by the shoulders. "Sherlock, please."

"I don't know."

He says it breathlessly, almost whispering. The tone of his voice makes John's spine go cold. Sherlock looks at him, blue irises sharp in the watery pink scleras.

"I don't know," Sherlock says again. And John believes him. "I started and I couldn't stop."

"Started what?"

"This." He blinks. And John understands he means the crying.

"Did something happen?"

Sherlock shakes his head slightly. Then his face crumples again, and his eyes squeeze shut as he lets out a shuddering breath. "Nothing. Nothing. And here I am like a bloody mental patient."

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, shoulders narrowing inward, and John only waits a beat before gathering him in a hug. Sherlock's gangly arms circle back around John weakly and he rests his face against John's shoulder, sniffling.

"Okay," John says, whispering, murmuring as if Sherlock were a small child. "You're all right. You're going to be all right."

"I wanted to use, John," Sherlock says. "I almost—I almost went out to buy. But I promised you I wouldn't. This is what happens when I don't. This is what it feels like."

John tightens his arms around Sherlock, one hand flat on his back and the other cradling Sherlock's curls. He is filled with relief and gratitude and guilt: touched that Sherlock resisted the coke and pained that this is what it's reduced him to. He understands now why Sherlock was an addict, if this is what always lurked beneath the high. Sherlock barely talks during a black mood; John's underestimated his pain.

"It'll be fine again. You're always fine after a few days, this is no different. It'll pass. I promise, it'll pass."

"It hurts," Sherlock whispers, small and fragile against John. "John-"

"I'm here. I'm right here."

"Don't leave. Don't ever leave. I can't—" Sherlock loses a sob.

John pulls away enough to take Sherlock's face in both his hands and look at him.

"I will never abandon you," he says, palms salty wet. "I promise. I love you."

He takes Sherlock back against his chest, holding the mop of brown curls against his own throat, and he feels a painful tightness in his windpipe. Sherlock doesn't speak, just clings to him and cries silently into his jacket. John can feel him quaking.

"I love you so much," John says. "Sherlock. I do. I really do."

He rubs his hand up and down Sherlock's back, wanting desperately for the man to believe him. He hates this. He hates it when he doesn't know how to help. He hates seeing Sherlock suffer.

"We'll get you some medicine," he says. "Maybe it'll help."

"No," Sherlock says, fingers curling painfully into John's back. "No. It could take away my brain. I wouldn't be able to work. I need to work."

John's no psychiatrist but he's aware that this is mostly a myth artists believe in. There's no scientific evidence that anti-depressants affect one's mental faculties. But he also knows that Sherlock is truly afraid, which almost never happens. Perhaps it makes him an irresponsible medical professional—Sherlock's clearly depressed or bipolar or something—but he won't risk destroying who Sherlock is, even for the man's own health.

"All right," he says gently. "We'll find another way. We'll get you through this."

Sherlock's hand relaxes. John's legs are starting to burn from crouching in this position too long, but he really has no desire to let go yet. He'll hold Sherlock all night if he must—which he probably does.

"I need you," Sherlock says. "I need you. I think about you leaving and it hurts, too much, I can't think. I don't know what to do."

John starts to hush him, hand still going up and down Sherlock's back in a steady rhythm. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You shouldn't have to deal with this."

"Don't apologize to me," John says, speaking softly, rocking Sherlock a little. "I want to be here, with you. I want to help."

"Why?" Sherlock whispers, tears unceasing. "How could you want to be with someone like this?"

"You're my Sherlock." He turns his face into Sherlock's hair and kisses him. "I belong with you."

They stay there, embracing, until John feels as if his legs might fall off.

"I'll make you some tea," he says. "Do you want some tea?"

Sherlock nods against his shoulder. John breaks their hug and looks at Sherlock's face again. The tears have dried, leaving his pale skin sticky and blotchy, his eyes pink and swollen. John leans in, hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, and kisses his forehead for a long moment. This brain, he thinks—this brilliant thing that makes Sherlock who he is, hurts him too, evokes John's endless awe and affection. He moves a lock of Sherlock's hair out of the way and kisses him again, high up on the left side of his forehead, thumb of his other hand pressing into the base of Sherlock's skull.

"You'll be all right," he says, before standing up and holding out a hand. He pulls Sherlock to his feet and guides him to the sofa, draws the blanket over him, and goes into the kitchen to make tea. He walks stiffly, as he regains full circulation through his legs and the muscles loosen.

They don't turn on the telly or the radio. Sherlock just listens to John moving about, eyes closed as he lies on the sofa and waits. John brings the tea and they drink it together in silence. As soon as they're finished, they lie down together on the sofa, beneath the blanket, and John holds Sherlock.

"Bit better?" he says. Sherlock doesn't answer except for a small nod that John perceives.

They lie there for a long time without saying a word, warm and whole, Sherlock's pain turning to numbness. John doesn't know how much time passes and doesn't care. He never wants to be anywhere else, when they're holding onto each other like this. He could lie here with Sherlock in his arms for decades, hopes and prays sometimes at night when he's awake in bed that they have that long, that time turns them gray and withered and dead in this embrace.

He doesn't care how screwed up Sherlock is. And he doesn't care if there's something wrong with himself for staying.

He's staying.


End file.
